


Polarities: Beginnings

by ladyofbrileith



Category: Angel: the Series, Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofbrileith/pseuds/ladyofbrileith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The start of a re-write of season 4 of <i>Angel</i> that I wrote years ago. What would happen if Wesley was a pre-immortal and Methos happened to stumble upon him while he was separated from the rest of the gang?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polarities: Beginnings

The glass seemed bottomless, a pool of golden rays, reflection of sunlight in the dimness of the bar. The bitter taste of the beer followed by the smooth bite of scotch had become ritual. Repetitive. Reassuring. A relevant partition between then and now. Them and us. Duality and singularity. Consonance and dissonance. Poetry and prose.

After a contemplative moment Wesley Wyndam-Pryce decided that it was a relative certitude that he was drunk.

As that had been his goal for the night, he felt a momentary thrill of pride. Good for him.

He ordered another beer.

Methos felt the faint tingle of not-yet-Presence as he entered the bar. There was a huge crowd, and figuring out where it came from was nigh impossible. He pressed to the bar, unconcerned. A pre-Immortal was no threat.

It was stronger at the bar, though, and curiosity made him scan those nearby. There. Him.

Methos ordered a beer and studied the boy. Early to mid-thirties. Slightly scruffy, but a strong jaw. High cheekbones. Sculpted lips. He couldn’t see his eyes from this angle, but the lashes brushing his cheek were long. And a scar. Running across the side of his neck. Someone had taken a blade to the boy, and not too long ago. Healed, but still angry and red.

Long fingers played over the pint glass in front of the boy. A dark sadness clung to him, and Methos found himself intrigued. The boy was too young to carry the weight of the world.

He drank his beer watching the boy unobtrusively. Methos was good at being invisible and he used it to his advantage now. After maybe an hour, the boy stood, grabbing his long coat and swinging it off the seat beside him. Methos knew that weighted swing.

The boy carried a sword already.

That was too fascinating, and Methos paid his tab and followed the boy out.

Through empty streets he walked, Methos trailing silently behind. The worst part of town, somewhere no one should be.

And then they came. Vampires. Methos stiffened as they surrounded the boy, who had gone very still. There were three of them, and they were hungry.

The boy circled slowly, watching them, and then, to Methos’ amazement, he smiled.

Wesley knew that hunting while drunk was not a wise idea. But he needed a fight. Not even a thank you when he’d dropped Angel off three days before. No forgiveness. No invitation. An empty apartment waiting, unless Lilah decided to drop by.

The vampires closed in and he smiled. The trick was to not let them get close enough. He drew the sword. They were wary, but he was one and they were three and it didn’t occur to them to wonder why a man would carry a sword through the streets.

Stupid vampires.

They came at him one by one. Again, foolish. Which movies were this generation of the undead watching that kept them from attacking en masse? He went to work.

Methos had drawn his sword, ready to go to the boy’s aid. He assumed draining would trigger his Immortality, but better if he got to live some sort of normal life.

He was amazed as he watched the boy start to fight. His sword work was graceful, fluid. He moved as one well-trained, experienced and much older than his years would be. A delight to watch and to find in this day and age. His style was classic, and when a dagger joined the sword, Methos wasn’t surprised.

Delicate blade work for a moment, then a grimace as he realized the imbecility of his foe. The first one lost his head within the first 30 seconds. The other two growled and moved on the boy at once, one grabbing him from behind.

Wesley’s hand flew backwards, a punch to the nose with the sword hilt, a jab forward with the dagger into the other one. Wouldn’t kill. Would hurt a lot.

The one behind let him go with a growl, though he was back on Wesley immediately, spinning him around and Wesley discovered the drawbacks of impaired balance as he stumbled. He was in too close for the sword to be effective, so he resorted to hand-to-hand, which wasn’t his forte. He managed to trigger the prototype of the armband stake and it flew into the vampire’s heart, dusting the demon right as its teeth scraped against his neck.

Wesley dropped to one knee, sensed the third vampire coming up behind him. He thrust behind him with the sword, impaling the creature. At least it slowed him down. But Wesley was trapped, not able to spin and finish the move.

Methos had watched, impressed, ready to move in if the boy needed it. He needed it now. A prowling approach a swing of his blade and the creature collapsed into dust around Wesley’s blade.

The sudden loss of an anchor tumbled Wesley to the ground and he rolled, moving to a crouching position as he looked up at the new player.

Methos studied him in return, taking in the amazing blue of the eyes he couldn’t see before. Beautiful. There was no other word to describe the boy before him.

Except maybe drunk. That he’d taken out two vampires and injured a third in this state spoke volumes for his skill. Methos was intrigued.

“Adam Pierson,” Methos offered with a slight smile.

Wesley breathed in sharply at the name, which made Methos wary. But Wesley’s voice was carefully neutral as he returned, “Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

Which clarified everything for Methos. Watcher. The Slayer training, demon hunting variety, not the Immortal voyeurs. Roger Wyndam-Pryce’s boy. Not that he knew Pryce Senior personally, he’d only met him once, but his reputation was well known in the circles which Adam Pierson occasionally moved. The circles in which Methos moved knew the ruthless Mr. Pryce even better.

Adam’s translation of the Sumerian Mythariatica Codex had earned him a name among those interested in such esoteric oddities. The knowing look in Wesley’s eyes labeled him as one of those.

“We should get you home,” Methos said softly, even as he wondered why he was taking any responsibility for the boy.

No. He knew. Such potential was rare and not to be squandered. That the potential came in such a nice package... He smiled to himself for a moment, before offering Wesley a hand, which Wes took warily. Methos pulled Wesley to his feet.

“Where do you live?” Voice still soft, a purr. Seductive and low, and Wesley’s eyes widened in response.

He gave Methos the address, voice faltering slightly. Methos smiled and took him home.

***

A fairly large one bedroom by LA standards. Dark walls, with white trim. Swords and other weaponry decorated the walls, though all showed signs of use. Not merely decoration, then. Book shelves on every other wall, a wide range of reading material. The expected esoteric and historical texts, mixed in with the equally expected high brow literature. However, a few mass market, lurid fantasy novels were shoved between the others, which made Methos smile.

Wes sat on the sofa, looking up at Methos steadily. He’d sobered up quite a bit more than he’d intended to. Fighting had a way of doing that to him. Meeting Adam Pierson, the Adam Pierson seemed to do it as well. He took the man in. Younger and far better looking than he would have expected.

“I’ve read your books,” Wesley said after a long moment of silence. He could have kicked himself afterwards. Rather inane thing to say.

Methos smiled faintly. “I’ve met your father.”

Wes’ answering smile was even fainter, his eyes suddenly distant and cold. “Then we each know what and who the other is.”

Not quite, Methos thought. But soon enough. “We at least have a point of reference to start from,” he conceded. “But no one can be known by reputation alone.”

Wes’ voice was dispassionate as he said softly, “You’re a Watcher. One of the other branch. You work on the Methos Chronicles and are a researcher while others of your kind watch Immortals. Observing and recording, but never interfering, am I right?”

Methos smiled slightly. “Partially, at least.” He tilted his head, studying Wes. “You train Slayers to fight against the demons and evil of the world, sending them out to slay until slain. Only, if I’m not mistaken, you aren’t doing that anymore.” He seemed to remember a scandal of some sort.

Wes stiffened. “No, I’m not.”

“Good for you. Lousy job, if you ask my opinion,” Methos said with a shrug. “You train a girl, get attached, then send her out to die. She dies, a new girl is called, and usually that girl goes to a new Watcher, and you retreat to a lifetime of grief in a library or on the Council. You’re better off away from it.”

Wes stared at him, frowning. Methos stared back appraisingly, daring Wes to gainsay him.

Wes broke first. Methos chuckled. “I’m not a Watcher anymore either, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Did you get fired?” Wes muttered, staring at the floor.

“I left...after an unfortunate occurrence,” Methos said vaguely. I’m 5000 years old, and I don’t even know who I am anymore.

“What do you do now?” Methos asked, shifting the conversation away from himself.

Wes’ laugh was dry. “I kill vampires. Or didn’t you notice?”

Methos arched an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “That’s it?”

“Yes.” Wes’ answer is succinct, discouraging further comment, a flash of pain in his eyes.

Methos nodded, not pressing.

Wes was silent for a minute then he shifted out of his thoughts and smiled, eyes sliding over Methos in innocent suggestion. The combination of that innocence and danger in the boy’s eyes was incredibly appealing.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Do you have beer?”

Wes nodded and headed towards the tiny kitchen. A sharp rap on the door interrupted him, though. He stared at the door for almost a full minute. Methos sensed tension, and braced himself for a fight, not sure what demon to expect to be calling on the handsome ex-Watcher. When Wes went to the door, though, it opened on a strikingly lovely woman.

The woman smiled, a seductive smile with a hint of cruelty under it. “You didn’t call, lover. I thought something might have eaten you.”

Wes stepped back, letting her in. “Lilah? When do I ever call you?”

“Whenever you want me,” she practically purred.

“I didn’t call you tonight, as you’ve already pointed out,” Wes said, his voice like ice.

“Maybe I know better than you what you want,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck and kissing him viciously.

He kissed her back for a minute, then tangled his fingers in her long brown hair and jerked her head back.

“I didn’t call you. And I have company,” he said with a nod towards Methos.

Lilah turned and sized up the man standing across the room. Dark hair, light eyes. Slouched in on himself a bit. Scholar. Research type. She’d dismiss him if Wes hadn’t already taught her what could lie beneath that sort of demeanor. Still, her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she extended her hand to him.

“Lilah Morgan.”

He shook her hand with a smirk, thinking she looked a bit like a child denied a treat. “Adam Pierson.”

“Friend of Wesley’s?” she asked, voice bored.

“Something like that,” he said, amused at her disdain. “You?”

“Not really. I just fuck him occasionally,” she said, her smile sharp.

Methos’ eyes flitted to Wes who was watching Lilah with a mixture of desire and loathing in his eyes. Interesting.

“Just occasionally?” Not a question Adam would ask, but Methos wanted to know.

“When I haven’t got anything better to do.”

Better than that? Methos’ eyes asked, raking over Wes again. Wes flushed slightly, at the look. Lilah’s eyes narrowed.

Methos took it one step further. “So, that means he’s free to date, then?”

Wes glared and spun on his heel, stalking to the kitchen. Methos chuckled. He knew interest when he saw it. The boy might not be willing to admit to any interest, but it was there.

Lilah’s smile sharpened further, her eyes glacial. “Not really. He’s hung up on Miss Texas right now.”

Wes came back in the room with a beer for himself and Methos. He’d pointedly refrained from getting Lilah a drink.

“No vodka?” she asked, looking at him.

“I didn’t realize you were staying.”

Methos took his beer with a smile of thanks, letting his fingers brush against the boy’s lightly. It could have been an accident. Lilah’s breath was an indrawn hiss.

She stared at the two of them for a moment, then forced a smile. “I’m not,” she said in response to Wes’ earlier statement.

Wes wandered back to the door, opening it for her. “Call before you come by next time Lilah. I wouldn’t want you to make the trip for nothing.”

“Don’t hold your breath, lover,” she said with an icy smile.

He shrugged, shutting the door behind her, and turning back to Methos.

“Lovely woman,” Methos said with a wry smile.

Wes shrugged again, crossed back to the sofa and sat. Methos sprawled at the other end.

“Not good friends, I take it.”

“She’s convenient,” Wes said dismissively, though the tension in his eyes said something else. The woman was more than convenient. Less than his love. Methos intended to figure it out eventually.

They chatted companionably as they drank their beers. History and demons and Slayers and Immortals, an interwoven tale through both their lives. Nothing too personal. Methos’ sense of the boy’s wariness increased every time he tried to ask a personal question. Wes seemed isolated, lonely, and bitterness haunted his eyes. Questions about family were answered shortly. Those about friends met with painful silence.

Something had happened, and Methos was almost willing to bet his head it had something to do with that beautiful scar.

He’d been attracted from the moment he noticed the pretty pre-Immortal. Intrigued when he noticed the swing of his coat that indicated the presence of a sword. Fascinated as he watched him battle the vampires effortlessly. Amused by his handling of Lilah. By the end of the second beer he was thoroughly hooked.

Wes’ sharp wit and dry humor, the way his eyes lit up when he flashed a rare smile, the movement of the scar against his neck muscles...Methos couldn’t tear his eyes away. This was not a good thing, by his count. Tempting pre-Immortals with dangerous eyes, entangled with demons, were nothing but trouble. He’d managed to avoid trouble the last few years, mainly by staying out of Mac’s orbit for the most part.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was Trouble and Methos knew it. He finished his beer and stood to go.

“I should head off,” he said, offering no excuse.

A flash of something in the boy’s eyes. Not disappointment exactly, but something. Wes stood and walked him to the door.

“I appreciate the ride home,” he said with a smile, offering his hand. “And it was good to meet you.”

Methos took his hand warmly, then let go. His hand was drawn to the scar, fingers running across it lightly.

Wes stilled, his breath catching.

“Make me a promise,” Methos ordered, voice soft and low, fingers dancing across Wes’ neck, then pausing, caressing the scar.

Wes swallowed, then nodded. “What?”

“Tell me about this someday,” he said, fingers trailing over the smooth skin.

Wes’ eyes clouded immediately, bitterness and sadness and anger mixing. Methos knew he’d been right.

“Promise me,” he ordered again.

“I promise.” A whisper, but it was there. Something flashed between them. An understanding of sorts.

Methos couldn’t help himself. Fingers still resting on the scar, he leaned into Wes. His lips brushed across the boy’s, the merest hint of a kiss. He felt the indrawn breath, air caressing his lips, but Wes didn’t pull back. Methos pressed into him more, his hand sliding around to Wes’ back, fingers hooking into a belt loop and pulling him flush against Methos. The kiss deepened, a sigh of what was either surrender or triumph or both flowing between them. Sweet taste of beer, scotch underneath. Heat leading to chills. Independence warring with need. Darkness flashing out of them both to devour the light in between. Clamoring calm. Innocence and danger. Lust and a longing of the soul.

The kiss broke, though neither of them could have said who broke it or where one ended and the other began for a moment. Methos leaned his forehead against Wes’ as he tried to catch his breath. Another lingering kiss, and then he was opening the door, though it was the hardest thing he’d done in years.

Wes’ eyes were intent, dark with want and need Methos knew his own reflected. But he wanted more from this one than a quick tumble. He had something Methos had been attempting to find for millennia. A goodness of heart tempered by a darkness of the soul that matched his own. A ruthlessness he could admire. An icy shell over a fiery core that Methos wanted to uncover. He could wait. Seduction was best played out slowly. They had time.

Another lingering kiss and a whispered, “Soon,” and he was gone.

Wes stared after him for a long moment then closed the door and leaned against it. Not soon enough.


End file.
